In Act I there was a rifle on the wall A Mosin-Nagant of vintage make The weapon was ready and on call If someone in Act II made a mistake
In Act II some surly men appeared at the door They entered, each with a menacing sneer Scuffing their grubby boots across the floor And Chekhov asked of them, “What do you want here?”
In Act III there was no rifle on the wall Chekhov had sold it to pay the rent – that’s all